Now we are five
by Mirvena
Summary: Some of the events shortly prior to IR going 'live' - Virgil's perspective.
1. Chapter 1

As usual, I don't own them. I am just toying with them awhile and hoping no-one minds too much.

Particular thanks to Virgil for his insights. Though I love him dearly, he has a restricted sense of humour, so I'm allowing him to cover one of the more serious moments in IR lore. If you want humour, you'll have to delve through my other stories. I know this episode been done many times before – this is just one way in which it might have 'gone down', and it is a necessary addition to my set.

Mostly psycho-babblish. TV-verse with my usual brand of AU thrown in.

This is set three to four months before 'Roughing up the mocking-bird' and twenty months prior to 'Introductions'.

…

**Now we are five**

…

We pick him up direct from his home base when his transport comes in.

He's wearing utilities, not full dress, but I still get that rush of unfamiliarity I always experience on the odd occasions I see him in uniform. Usually, by the time he's made his way to Kansas he's in civilian clothes. But this time we're not going to the farm.

He sees us and, breaking into a grin, he strides over and pulls me into an embrace. It lasts a few nanoseconds longer than John would be comfortable with, but I don't mind. It's been more than a year since we've seen one another. He breaks and eyes up Alan now. I see a brief look of chagrin cross his face.

"You've grown, kiddo," he remarks, and holds Alan at arm's length to inspect him.

Alan was three weeks pre-term and it's like he's always been playing catch-up. This is the first time Scott's seen him since a year gone Christmas and the kid is no longer a kid. We Tracys tend to be a tall bunch. But Scott favors Gramps Michael – Mom's father - both in looks and build. When we were kids he towered over the rest of us for what felt like years - but he's had to stand back and watch as we all overshot him in turn.

Alan's just the latest in the line.

He stops staring at our little brother, all grown up now, and gives him a hug, too. Alan pulls a face. He's getting to the stage where he thinks he's grown out of that stuff. He'll grow right back into it again, one day soon, same as we all did.

"So you persuaded Grandma let you come?"

"It wasn't easy, believe me."

"You don't say. I'm surprised she let you skip classes in your graduation year. You settled on Yale yet?"

"Harvard," Alan says firmly. He idolises John.

"No taste. You have no taste." Scott shakes his head in mock disbelief.

_- I want to tell him what Alan's going to be doing with his vacations. But I can't -_

We lead him to the car, and catch up a year's worth in about thirty seconds flat. Not the important stuff – that can wait.

"Nice wheels," he comments, holding out a hand. I hand over the keys without comment.

He says I drive too slowly – he'll probably say Alan drives too fast; he hasn't seen the kid behind a wheel yet - but that isn't really it. He's the ultimate control freak, hates being in the passenger seat. I learned a long time ago just to give in gracefully.

It's the same when we arrive at the jet. He looks her up and down – I like to think approvingly - and states the obvious.

"This isn't Tracy One."

"Nope. She's mine. Where we live now we need more than one plane."

He just grunts in response, but finishes his once-over and heads on in to the cockpit.

"I hear these are nice birds to fly. Do you mind?"

It isn't a question.

"Sure – be my guest."

"You filed a flight plan?"

I just shoot him a withering look, and dig it out for him. He gives it a brief glance and throws it onto a passenger seat. I know he has memorised it in that instant. He does the same thing with the display panels and the flight controls – a quick once-over and he knows where everything is. We settle down for the pre-flight checks and start to taxi.

I don't really mind. I've already flown from the island to Kansas and then done the trip from Wichita to Fairfield. I could do with the break. And in all honesty, I love to watch him fly. It took me a few flights to get a real feel for the way she handles. He's instantly at home.

To begin with he's in a sunny mood. Once we're airborne and out over open ocean he even lets me fly my own plane for a few minutes while he ditches his combat gear and tugs on a vest and jeans. But it doesn't look like lasting.

"So," he says wonderingly, slipping back into the pilot's seat. "An island."

Well, that isn't actually what he says. He's interjected an adjective, but it's unrepeatable. Suffice to say, he's been unimpressed with the whole island notion from its inception.

I remember the phone call when I first told him. It was way back when – he'd have been in his freshman or sophomore year, I think. There had been a long silence at the end of the phone.

"_He's bought a _what_?!"_

"_An island. In the pacific."_

_Another long silence._

"_What's he planning to do with a pacific island?" His voice had turned suspicious. "He's not going into weapons testing, is he?"_

_I chuckled. "No – you kidding? Dad? He's planning to live there."_

_His bewilderment was actually audible._

"_Live there – as in permanently? Is he planning to retire? The boredom will kill him in a week. If he likes it so much why doesn't he just holiday there once in a while?"_

_I laughed again. "No, you don't understand. It isn't a holiday-paradise sort of island. It's a hundreds-of-miles-out-of-the-way-uninhabited sort of island. There'll be no-one except us there. He's planning to build a luxury villa."_

"_Now I _know_ he's losing it. By the time he's built his luxury villa, there'll be no-one left at home to share it. It's only a few years before you'll go to college, and the rate Johnny's going, I shouldn't be surprised if he's right behind you."_

- He was wrong, as it happens. John made college the same year I did. The annoying little tyke wasn't even sixteen when they let him into Harvard and he powered through two separate degrees in the time it takes most of us to do one –

"_What are the kids going to do for school?"_

"_Don't know. S'pose they'll stay on with Grandma." To be fair, I was only fifteen and neither knew nor much cared._

_But we heard nothing more about the island for a long time after that. Whenever one of us brought it up Dad would just shrug. "Work in progress," he'd say._

_But everything changed a couple of years back. I was the first one Dad told, the first he asked to join him, even before he approached Johnny. I'll hang onto that for a very long time._

…

"That's it?"

He peers out curiously.

"Runway's just this side. It's very short. You're coming in a little high." I try not to sound anxious. He's remembered he isn't in a jump jet, right?

"That's because I'm not coming in."

He turns the jet. Apparently he intends to give the island a once-over.

"I don't think this is a good idea."

"Why not? Plenty of fuel," Alan puts in unhelpfully.

He sounds excited. I shoot him a warning glance. I hope Dad's security is as tight as he says it is.

Scott tracks the island counter-clockwise. He takes in the smaller islands in the archipelago at a glance - not much to see there – and turns his attention back to the main island.

"Wasn't expecting so many trees," he comments.

"Yip," Alan says enthusiastically. "And they're full of all sorts of nasty little bugs and critters. Darwinian nightmare. You'd be surprised what's managed to make its way out here."

"You can imagine what kind of a field-day Gordon has when he visits," I warn him. "But we're safe for now. He's in Taholah."

"I know," he says patiently. "He told me they won't give him leave. I planned to go out there to see him on Thursday night."

_- Gordon's birthday; of course -_

"Great idea," I respond. "John and I can come out too." With luck I can head off up to Seattle afterward for a little downtime with Iris. John will undoubtedly find something to do.

Alan's enthusiasm builds. "Yeah, fantastic – count me in too."

I pour cold water on his plans. "We told your principal three days. No more. I fly you back on Wednesday. I can stay on the farm overnight and head up north Thursday."

He pouts. I agree it sucks.

Scott banks so he can see the crater more clearly.

"Neat," is the only comment he offers. I can see he's already thinking about the climbing possibilities. That's a good sign.

He's more vocal about the villa as it swings into view around the other side of the island.

"That is just obscene," he mutters. "What the heck was he thinking of?"

Scott has money. What he does with it is anybody's guess. For the son of a billionaire, and someone who has somehow – according to John - accrued several tens of millions in his own right, Scott has an oddly parsimonious streak. He hates outward displays of wealth, and for the past four years he hasn't even shelved out for a decent condo – he lives in standard air force accommodation when he's Stateside, and presumably in some tent somewhere when he's not.

I fancy we're in for a hard week.

_- I want so much to tell him what Dad's doing, but I can't –_

"Scott, don't give Dad a hard time about it, okay? At least you get your own room."

The Kansas farmhouse could get a little crowded at times.

"I don't mind bunking in with you."

"If you miss my snoring so much, you're welcome to sleep on my floor. Do whatever you want. You're on vacation. Just enjoy it."

He'll love being able to keep to a routine. He's just a touch OCD. The military suits him. On the mainland we all have to be careful not to get into habits. Here he can go running same place, same time every morning if he wants.

"John will be here too." I continue. "Heaven knows when we'll all see you next."

He bites his lip and puts the plane into a tight turn to come back for landing.

"There's something else I ought to tell you," I put in hastily.

"Shoot." He sounds unenthusiastic.

"Dad's brought back a young scientist from T.A. to live on the island. His name's Hackenbacker. He's a bit odd, but he's okay, really." It comes out in a bit of a rush.

"Oh, Brains, he's fine, he just…"

Scott interrupts Alan. "Whoa. Back up there." He sounds alarmed. "There's someone else living on the island? Where? I don't see a second house." His eyes narrow. "Are you telling me he's living as part of the family?"

I knew he wouldn't like it. He doesn't like change, especially if it concerns family. Occasionally Dad tried to install a woman after Mom died. Scott wouldn't have it. We've only just got him used to the fact that Tin-Tin is a permanent fixture. The only person he ever took to right away was Kyrano himself. I don't know why.

"You won't see him much. He has some lab space downstairs and he spends most of his time down there."

He grimaces. "Would someone please explain to me why he's brought some stray to the island with him? I know the rents near the Aerospace factories have rocketed recently, but can't he just _pay_ him more? Is he planning on bringing any more of his workforce over with him?"

"Scott, I don't know." I'm beginning to tire of this. "Why don't you ask him?"

I know he won't.

He still comes in steeper and faster than I would have done. I wonder – briefly – what will happen if he does run short of concrete. The hangar door is pretty solid, and it's shut. But he keeps the nose up longer than I could and the back of the undercarriage touches down just the right side of the water, and then when he does put her front end down he eases back so smoothly and firmly that she rolls to a stop on a quarter. I'm left looking at a couple of hundred yards of concrete. He smiles coolly. "You want me to walk her up to the hangar for you?"

I shake my head. "I'll put her away. Alan, show him up to the house."

The hangars are too close to the silos.

…

The rest of us have tried long and hard to persuade Dad to tell Scott. This is _Scott_ - the guy with eyes in the back of his head. We are not going to be able to hide this from him for long. But we have other motives, too. All of us want him on the team. Even Johnny wants him on board, and those two don't exactly see eye to eye these days.

If we're going for nepotism, let's go the whole quarter.

John's somewhat prohibited little foray into military personnel files just made us more determined.

"I'm going on a poaching expedition," Dad had said. "I need someone who can test the planes and then head up the team when it goes into operation. Get me a short list - half a dozen names, John. They need up-to-date combat experience - the GXP is likely to handle most like an F-49 or a navy Vulture, so it needs to be someone who's used to flying solo. Whoever it is will also need to be able to handle themselves on the ground, so the more added skills you can find me, the better."

"Why not just get Scott involved?" I asked. "He pretty much fits the profile."

Dad shook his head. I felt my heart drop a little. We'd talked about this before, and this is how I thought he'd react, but I had to try.

"He and I wouldn't work well together, you know that, son."

"No, I don't," I persisted, reasoning it was worth just getting him thinking about this. "You don't know how you'd _work_ together. You've never done it. No-one's asking you to do the whole father-son routine."

I blurted this out without really meaning to. I have never understood why the whole thing is different with Scott than the rest of us. Johnny has some insight into what it's all about, I think, but he's not sharing. None of us talks about it.

"Just keep it business," I added hastily. "It'll be fine. Besides, he's bound to figure it out if he's on the island for any length of time."

I can see him thinking about it. "Much as I'd like to bring your brother in on this, I really don't think it _will_ work, son. If I offer him a place on the team and it goes wrong, it would be worse than never having him in at all. He's got a real good career carved out for himself where he is. He's done it without my help. Let him have that."

"You have the both of us on board with this, and you've already talked to Gordon and Alan about joining us when they're old enough. Why would you want to exclude Scott? He's better qualified to do this kind of job than any of us."

"Besides, if you bring Scott in you really can put your mind at rest about the whole security issue," Johnny interjected. "Let's say I get you your short-list. What makes you think you can approach any of them without them ratting you out to the government before you're ready to go public?"

"I'll cross that bridge when I come to it." Negotiation is what Dad excels at. He'd play it softly but make them an offer they couldn't refuse if it came down to it.

Johnny had eventually complied and accessed the files. I had watched over him as he worked, worried.

Hackenbacker could have helped, but refuses to get involved in anything so illegal. I can't say I blame him. He has a good reputation. If the whole thing goes wrong, Dad will pay him off handsomely and he can get tenure at any one of a dozen top-flight institutions.

Johnny's more vulnerable. It terrifies me when he does this stuff. When he was a kid he always had Scott for back-up, and it seemed more like a game than anything else. Now he's on his own. But that day he was fast and careful and he assured me he got in and out without detection.

He spent the next few days sorting through the data and compiling personnel packs. When he was ready he called me back in to see Dad.

"I got you your six, sir. I ran them all through the computer, trying different criteria. Some names tended to pop up a lot. These are the final inclusion/exclusion criteria I applied."

He tossed his list of 'must have' qualities over to Dad over who inspected it and looked up approvingly.

"Good work, John." He looked at the size of the packs and frowned. "Just give me the bottom line. Names, ranks, what they've flown, any other talents we can use. I'll go through them in detail later."

"Okay. First up, Piers Conchalto, naval lieutenant. Thirty-two years of age. Flies SiGs. Plenty of combat experience, earned him a bundle of medals, including a Silver Star." He glanced up. "This entire bunch are decorated up to the eyeballs – I'll give you the highest award each time, it'll save time. Good record with his superiors. He's an outdoor man, likes kayaking, abseiling, paragliding, parachuting. Speaks fluent Spanish and Russian."

Dad nodded. "Sounds like the right sort of material. Next?"

"The other naval pilot. Carl Johansen. Sub-lieutenant. Twenty seven and a rising star. SiGs and Vultures. Over a hundred and fifty combat missions. DFC. Natural leader, but a risk-taker. Off duty – well," John grimaced a little, "when he's not indulging his tastes for fast cars, gambling and women, he's quite an athlete."

Dad shook his head. "Sounds like a hot-shot."

John tossed the file to one side. "Next up, Sarah Silberman. F-49s. Air force, first lieutenant. Already taken a DFC. Just turned twenty-five. She looks likely to make captain at the first attempt. Plays a little by the book but very well-respected. Physically very fit. Off duty she likes to work out, and to climb and abseil, and she's recently started sky-diving."

"She looks promising. But she's maybe on the young side. I'll look at her again in a couple of years if we expand the unit. Next," Dad said.

"Jay Haines, Major, thirty-six. F-46s, F-49s, and he can fly choppers, too. Meritorious Service Medal. His combat experience is a bit limited given his age but he's known to be a good aerial tactician. He was injured on a couple of occasions when he might otherwise have seen more action. Boxes in his spare time. Fluent in Spanish."

"Put him on the 'maybe' pile."

"Next up we have Robert Collins, Captain, aged thirty. F-49s and Cobalts. Combat experience in most of the major war zones, and the only ace of the bunch. AFC."

Dad sat up. "AFC? Why hasn't he made major yet?"

"He's a known pain in the ass. He's had a couple of run-ins with senior officers. But he's good. He's a terrific pilot, and tends to think he knows best in the field. Off duty he has black belts in karate and jujitsu, and he won a football scholarship to the Academy. Speaks some Japanese."

Dad thought about it. "Maybe."

John tossed the file down.

"Last up is Michael Shannon, Captain. Aged twenty-six; turns twenty-seven in a couple of months."

"John," Dad growled.

John held up a hand. "Computer kept throwing the name out, I swear to you Dad. Whatever I did to the criteria, made no difference. He made the list nine times out of ten. Can't argue with the computer. Flies F-49s and Markers. Flown well over a hundred combat missions. Silver Star, plus an oak leaf cluster."

"What?" Dad turned to me, incredulous. "Did he say anything to you about that?"

I didn't have to feign surprise. It was as much news to me.

"What did he get them for?" Dad demanded.

"Read his file," John said offhandedly. "Known as a brilliant aerial strategist. Off duty he's a first class mountaineer and proficient in a number of martial arts including Taekwondo and Taiho-Jitsu," he continued rather unnecessarily.

Dad held up a hand. "John, stop. It's not going to happen."

John stared him out. He was clearly in for the long haul. "He at least deserves the same consideration as the others."

"He isn't going to want this."

"How do you know what he wants unless you ask him?" I put in, feeling it was a reasonable enough question.

Johnny sighed. "Dad, to be honest, I think he'll jump at it. I think at first the Air Force was everything he wanted it to be. But then he got posted to a war-zone and reality kicked in. You don't earn a Silver Star by handing out Hershey bars. People died – people just doing their jobs, same way he was. I don't think it sits too happily with that high moral code of his. The last couple of times I've seen him, I figure it's been eating at him. He's hardening up – I guess they all do – but the day he really stops caring is the day he stops being the brother I grew up with."

It was a long speech for John, and it got Dad's attention.

"He goes on the 'maybe' pile," Dad conceded at last. "He isn't the front-runner. I'll give things some consideration, that's all."

…

So we are under strict orders to say nothing to Scott while father 'gives things some consideration'.

He wanders around the living space touching some of the bronzes that he hasn't seen before. His mouth twitches slightly. He's made no secret of his disapproval. John's right. He's toughened in some way since I last saw him. I don't like the changes I see.

He leaps lightly up onto the dais. The Bösendorfer is one luxury I know he won't begrudge me. To my surprise, he runs his fingers up a D flat chord. He hasn't touched a piano in ten years, so far as I know…

…Dad says Scott used to listen to Mom play as a kid. The sharp mind that could do complex mental math at the age of four made short work of musical notation. And as a kid, I used to listen to him. Me, I used to play by ear before I started taking lessons, but he was the first one to sit me down and show me the difference between a quarter note and a half note. We both have absolute pitch. For a while Dad thought he might take after Mom and be a musician. Mind you, he was sure I was going down that route too. At least I still play. Scott kept it going for years after Mom died, but I suspect his heart wasn't in it. He was doing it to please Dad.

Being the eldest son of a billionaire comes with its downsides.

I figure the fact that Scott was cycling his usual route to his piano lesson when he was knocked off his bike and bundled into the back of a van was the final nail in the piano-playing coffin. Fortunately for us, he managed to give his abductors the slip after a couple of days with nothing worse than a few grazes to show for it. But shortly afterwards he gave up music lessons and started self-defence classes instead.

It wasn't the first of the kidnap threats, but it was the last and most serious. It was around about that time we stopped having routines and started using aliases. And shortly afterwards, Dad moved the family back to Kansas again, for the second time in our young lives…

…Scott stops, now, by the centrepiece over the fireplace and his expression changes.

"Wow," he murmurs finally. "This is fantastic."

I'm pleased by this. It's a personal favorite, the piece I'm proudest of to date.

His tone is warm. "I think it's the best thing you've done, Gussie."

The use of my childhood nickname here and now catches me by surprise. Then I realise, stupidly, it's triggered by my initials on the painting.

Gordon, John and Alan simply drop the 'Tracy' when they travel. I – in a moment of inspiration that I have had plenty of time to regret – took Gregory Ulysses Shannon, known to all my friends as Gus. I liked the play on 'Gus' Grissom, and it's easy enough for the other guys to remember when we're around other people. At the time I liked the idea of using Mom's unmarried name as an alias, and it seemed to please Scott, too. It's always seemed to irk him that he's the only one of us born out of wedlock (which isn't how he - or Grandma when she's having an off-day – refers to it).

He swings around, suddenly. "What are you doing out here, Virgil?" He shakes his head wonderingly. I know what he's thinking. Twenty-three is no age to be living at home.

"Working for Dad," I say simply.

"Working?" He raises an eyebrow.

I hesitate. I find it very hard to lie to him but keep to the half-truth. "I told you, I design machine parts for the firm. I can do it as well here as anywhere."

I fancy he may have detected the false ring in my voice, but at that moment Tin-Tin, home from her travels, provides a welcome distraction. She squeals and launches herself at him. In the years since she's lived with us he's finally learned to think of her as the sister he never had.

Or so I think. But he's in an unpredictable mood and steps back.

"For Pete's sake, girl, go and put some clothes on!"

He kinda has a point. The bikini she is scarcely wearing leaves very little to the imagination. She scuttles out, her color high.

I will have to go and smooth things over with her later. He's upset her, I can tell. Like Alan, she's come home specially to see him, and it wasn't much of a greeting. "It _is_ hot," I say in her defense.

"And that isn't going to cool things down any. She's not a child any more, Virj. Doesn't she realise the effect she's having?"

She undoubtedly does. I wonder whether to tell him that she's developing a special affection for Alan. He'll probably notice. Then again, he may not. He isn't that interested in our private lives - if I want to talk women, I go to Johnny. And he was the last of us to fathom Gordon out.

We bump into Hiram. It goes about as well as expected. Brains lives in a world of his own. His head's so full of aerodynamics there isn't a lot of room for people, and he doesn't read them well. He certainly doesn't get the measure of Scott very quickly. Scott's jittery and over-formal, as he always is when he's sizing people up. Hiram's patronising, as _he_ always is. I spot the danger signs and prise the two of them apart as soon as I can.

Johnny arrives. Scott, to my surprise, lights up. He was real fond of Sammy, John's ex – we all were – and he was best man at the wedding. It's taken a long time for him to get over the way John treated her. But Scott gets over most things eventually, and he's always had John's back.

He's cooler with Dad, but then it's mutual. He's sarcastic about the house, of course, which puts Dad's back up. Father figures he earned the money; it's up to him how he spends it. I figure Scott might feel quite differently if only he knew what underlay the whole thing…

_- Just tell him, Dad –_

Dinner is more uncomfortable than it should be. We miss Gordo here. Somehow the kid has the knack of getting a party going.

Dad quizzes Scott about how his career is going. He's typically close-mouthed in response. He doesn't mention he's been decorated. I don't know if it's modesty, or if it's something else.

So I watch the two people I care most about in the whole world dance around one another in the same old uneasy fashion.

_- Please, just tell him –_

…

Life has a way of forcing you to maintain a perspective.

The next day we get the news.

Gordon's boat has flipped at speed after the T-foil hit submerged debris. He isn't expected to live.

...


	2. Chapter 2

_- He probably didn't know much about it –_

…

It's been the longest night of my life.

I know it's a cliché. But the truth is that a minute can feel like a lifetime when you're waiting for this kind of news.

He's in surgery. They're digging pieces of ribcage out of his chest. They've warned us he may die in theatre. They're amazed he didn't die on the way to the hospital.

When the 'foil snagged and disintegrated into a hundred pieces he was thrown high into the air.

The piece of fibreglass that prevented him turning face-down and drowning before the rescue boat got to him also did most of the damage. Smacking into it broke his right shoulder, pelvis and leg, and cracked vertebrae, ribs and skull. He has a concussion. One of his lungs has partially collapsed. It was probably falling debris that broke his nose and knocked two teeth loose. No-one knows how he hasn't choked to death.

He should not be alive.

The only good thing is he probably didn't know much about it. I keep telling myself this over and over again, repeating it like a mantra.

_- He probably didn't know much about it -_

It isn't comforting me much.

It isn't right that this should happen. Not to Gordon.

Not to Gordon, who loves life more than anyone I know.

Not to Gordon who never did anyone any harm. His pranks are irritating and childish or amusing and harmless – depending on whether you're on the receiving end or not. But he would never hurt anyone.

Not to Gordon who can step from his customary frivolity straight into The Zone in a heartbeat.

Not to Gordon, who has the physique of an Olympian.

Not to Gordon who turns every head as he walks down the street.

Not to Gordon who loves his many friends, and whose friends love him right back.

Not to Gordon, who keeps the family together.

Why does this though suddenly enter my head? I shake it to clear it.

No. It's Dad and Scott who keep us together. Dad because he's Dad, and Scott because, well…

…I figure Scott grew up both slower and faster than the rest of us. Slower, because in his teens when most kids are more interested in what their peers are doing, and in finding some independence, he stayed home to entertain his kid brothers. And faster because we needed looking after. A month short of his ninth birthday, he was the nearest thing we had to Mom.

Apart from Scott, only John claims to remember Mom. It isn't fair. John is two years younger than me. He's closer in age to Alan than he is to Scott. He was only three when she died. How does he remember her? It should be me who can remember.

They call it childhood amnesia.

I try, often. Sometimes I think I get a fleeting picture in my head, or a sound, or the faint whiff of her scent. But it's so fleeting I don't know if it's real…

…Right now I want her back so badly. Why is that? How can I want something I don't even remember having?

That earlier thought comes back into my head and rolls around in there, persistently.

Gordon keeps us all together.

And I realise it _is_ true. Dad and Scott are the twin gravitational poles around which the family revolves. But there's massive tension there, too, and Gordon acts as a sort of fulcrum, the factor that stops the pull from gaining momentum, and the family from tearing itself apart. They both adore him. While he's there, they won't risk open warfare.

If we lose him, what will happen to the family?

What will happen to Dad's plans?

If we lose him.

I run my mind over this. It's like running your tongue over the gap that's left after you've had a tooth pulled. You know what I mean - you can't stop touching the raw surface.

Jeez, it's so hot in here. I feel as if I can't breathe.

John is sitting, his head bowed, rocking a little. He looks as though he's muttering, but there's no sound coming out.

"He's going to be all right, isn't he?" Alan is looking for reassurance.

I bite my lip. I don't know the answer. "I don't know, Alan. You heard the doctor."

Alan begins to cry silently. He looks away, hoping that no-one has noticed.

Tin-Tin, unsure what to do, reaches out a hand, touches his timidly. He doesn't respond.

Dad has been sitting in white-faced silence for some minutes now.

He started off being characteristically angry. He wasn't happy about the fact that Gordon is in a civilian hospital. A military hospital would have better facilities for these kinds of injuries. Yelled at the medical staff when he didn't get the answers he wanted, paced about like a caged lion, generally made a Tracy-sized nuisance of himself. John and I tried to calm him, and eventually he lapsed into a state of sullen inertia which was somehow worse than the anger. I've never seen him like this.

Now he notices Tin-Tin's hand move, notices Alan. It seems to spur him into some kind of consciousness.

"Where's Scott?" he demands, suddenly, huskily.

It occurs to me that I haven't seen him for a while. He slipped out when Dad started making all that noise. I glance at the clock. It's been almost an hour.

"I'll fetch him," John says quietly, and gets to his feet.

"You know where he is?"

"I can take a pretty good guess."

Dad rises, too. He looks angry again, motions John to sit down. "So can I."

John raises a hand. "Dad, no. Just leave it alone. Don't start in on him. I'll get him."

"Tell him his place is _here_."

I'm bemused by this exchange. Where the hell is Scott? Surely even he couldn't eat at a time like this? Maybe he's gone for a walk to clear his head.

John slinks off. The pair of them return ten minutes later. Scott is calm but he doesn't meet Dad's eye.

"About your father's business?" Dad's tone is heavy with sarcasm. I don't understand what he's talking about. Which of the businesses is he talking about and why would Scott concern himself with them now?

"There isn't anything else I can do to help," Scott responds evenly. I know he hates inertia, that feeling of helplessness. He'd rather do something, anything, even if it's useless.

I'm shocked when Dad curses him, softly, profanely. "You can help by being here for your brothers. Your business is here, with your family."

I feel tears pricking my own eyes and blink them back. I don't understand these guys. What the hell can they find to argue about at a time like this?

The seed of a doubt sows itself in my mind.

Why _your_ father?

Dad jokes from time to time that Scott isn't his – never in his hearing, mind you – but it's patently a _joke_.

_Isn't it? _

Is this the root of the feud? Is it why Dad doesn't want Scott on the team?

It doesn't make any sense – none of this damned day does. I let it wash over me, but I'm left with a queasy feeling in the pit of my stomach.

Scott squeezes my shoulder. "It's going to be okay."

He doesn't sound convinced, but I'm grateful anyway.

Scott crosses to Alan, pulls his head close to his chest. "Alan, he's going to be okay. I promise."

Alan chokes back a sob. "You don't _know_ that. How can you promise?"

I guess he's growing up faster than I realised. But Scott rocks him a little and hushes him like he used to when Alan was a kid. "Listen to me. Everything is going to be all right." He reaches out with the other hand, strokes Tin-Tin's arm.

I see Dad pinch his nose. I know he's torn between wanting to offer the same kind of reassurance and not wanting to offer false hope.

"Mr Tracy?"

The whole family swings round.

The surgeon hasn't stopped to change. He has blood on his overalls. My brother's blood.

Dad scrambles to his feet.

"How is he?" Dad's voice has an edge of desperation.

"Well," the surgeon spreads his hands. "He survived the procedure. The orthopedic surgeons are looking at him now. He'll need more operations. I won't lie to you. His condition is critical. We're worried about the concussion – we can't be sure how bad the head injury is until we can get a scan. But if he survives the next forty-eight hours he's in with a chance."

Dad raises a hand to his face, rubs his nose again. I notice his hand is shaking. "What are the odds?"

The surgeon shrugs. "I wouldn't like to say. There appears to be surprisingly little damage to other internal organs. And he's an exceptionally fit young man. He may pull through."

Dad nods.

It isn't all bad.

I wonder, dully, about the concussion. If he survives, will there be brain damage? Will he still be Gordon? I still feel faint and nauseous, though I know I should feel some relief.

It's another two hours before he's moved to intensive care. They say two of us can go see him, just for a couple of minutes. I'm surprised but grateful when Scott nods to me to accompany Dad. I need to see Gordon for myself. Not just to convince myself that he's alive, but because I need to know the whole thing's real. Money can protect you from a lot of things. But not everything. I feel like I'm trapped in some horrible dream.

But then it all changes abruptly.

When I enter the ICU I'm hit first by confusion, and then almost immediately by a sudden wave of relief. The realisation is so tangible it leaves me light-headed and reeling.

The creature lying on the cot is not my brother. I don't know who it is – it could be anyone, unrecognisable beneath tubes and ventilators and swathes of bandaging. The little flesh that is showing is bruised black. But it isn't Gordon. The person on the bed is far too small to be Gordon.

There has been a terrible mistake. This isn't Gordon. This is someone else's brother.

I turn to tell Dad.

_- There's been a mistake. This isn't him –_

Dad's looking down. I see a tear forming. It runs down the length of his nose, drops unheeded onto the bedclothes. This isn't right. Dad doesn't cry. I hunt back in my memory for the last time I saw him cry. I've _never_ seen it. Somehow it frightens me more than anything else that's happened today. I put a hand on his back, unsure how he'll react. He just keeps looking down. Then he shakes his head.

"Oh, Lucy," he says softly. He sounds heart-broken.

I look back down at the comatose figure. Twining down the right arm beneath the hospital gown I see Cassandra's curving tail.

Gordon's beloved mermaid.

_- Gordon -_

I choke back a sob of my own. Dad reaches out a hand then, grasps my arm.

"He'll be okay," he says. He sounds as though he's trying to convince himself as much as me. "You'll see. He's strong. He's going to make it."

…


	3. Chapter 3

And he does.

It's been a week and he's still with us. His nineteenth birthday has come and gone, unacknowledged. Assuming he makes it to twenty, I'm going to see to it that he has a birthday he'll never forget.

We have taken up temporary residence in the nearest decent hotel.

Scott has stayed on. Compassionate leave.

I thought Johnny would be twitching to get back to the island by now, but he's stayed too.

Yesterday I took Alan back to Kansas – he was protesting all the while. Grandma wanted to come back but Dad said no. Not yet.

Dad has regained his composure. The anger has dissipated now that Gordon's out of immediate danger, and he's back in control. Whatever it was that he and Scott went head to head about seems to have abated. Dad's greatest fear was that he was going to watch his son die. Now he believes that isn't going to happen he's allowing himself to hope that Gordon will make a full recovery. The doctors still aren't optimistic. But they don't know Gordon.

Gordon is off the ventilator. He woke three days ago.

It wasn't pleasant. He doesn't understand that he's been in an accident. He has no idea why he's restrained. He's shouting a lot, and he's frightened and aggressive, and they are having to sedate him most of the time. They say it's to be expected.

I check my watch. Visiting begins in half an hour.

I call round to fetch Scott from his room.

He doesn't answer when I knock. I try the door. It's open.

He's sitting on the bed, a piece of paper in his hand. He looks dazed.

I pull up a chair. "What's up, BB?"

He eyes me bleakly. He shakes his head but he knows better than to lie to me. I glance at what he's holding.

"What's that?"

"Fax," he mumbles.

"Gordon?" My heart races suddenly. Why would they fax? They have Dad's mobile number.

He shakes his head. "My CO. I've been posted back to the States."

I wait.

"They're taking me off flying duties pending further consultation."

"What?"

"They're sticking me behind a desk, Virj."

It's incomprehensible. He's one of their best airmen. And they're so short of trained fighter pilots that his unit is likely to be on high alert for at least another year.

"I don't understand."

"I needed confirmation from the hospital that my brother was on the critical list. We had a surname issue. I had to explain to my CO who Dad is. She wasn't happy."

He glances up.

I realise John and Dad are in the doorway.

"Did you know about this?" Scott's tone is hard, accusing.

Dad eases his way in, motions John to shuts the door behind him, leans back against the wall.

"I had the heads-up, yes. I had a phone call from Charlie yesterday. I'm sorry, Scott. But what did you think was going to happen? This was sealed the moment you contacted your CO. If you wanted to stay on active duty you should have gone back when you were due."

"And left him hanging between life and death? Dammit, Dad, I haven't done anything wrong. It isn't like I used false documentation. I've never lied about anything."

"This isn't about anything you did or didn't do. Scott, the top brass know exactly who you are. You don't think military intelligence is that bad, do you? They've been content to go with it so long as it stayed right at the top level. But now word has leaked out lower down it becomes a whole different ball game. If it was just your CO maybe they could have contained it. But it's all the people who push paper, too. I should think half your unit knows by now. How long before the enemy knows?"

"I don't need protection. I could have been shot down any time and no-one would have turned a hair till now."

"Precisely. No-one would have blinked if Mike Shannon was captured behind enemy lines. What happens to downed US air crew over there?"

Scott shrugs. "If they're lucky they're negotiated out. If they're unlucky, this lot tend to go for hanging as their preferred method of dispatch." His tone is sour.

"And what happens if they get their hands on the eldest son of the fourth richest man in the world?"

Scott says nothing for a while. He knows what would happen, and what the repercussions would be. His shoulders slump in defeat.

He looks at the fax again.

"Maybe they'll let me train as an instructor." I can see the cognitive restructuring going on, but it's a struggle for him. "It won't be so bad. I could do that. Maybe I can put in for a transfer to McChord. Then I can get over to see Gordon and help with his rehab when I'm off-duty."

He isn't able to hide his bitter disappointment. I feel profoundly sorry for him. A week ago he had four healthy brothers and a career. Now everything is falling apart.

Dad glances across the room. "John, can you hold the fort with Gordon today?"

"Sure, sir."

"The rest of us need to take a trip back to the island."

…

He wasn't thrilled about being dragged away from Gordon's side.

But this has more than piqued his interest.

He reaches out a hand to touch Brains' laptop. The plans for the GXP are laid out in all their glory. He runs a long finger down the screen, feeling her lines. It's a sensuous movement, as though he's running his hands over a woman.

Hiram changes the viewing angle.

Scott drinks it all in soundlessly. His fingers continue to play over the screen as though he can feel the way she'd handle, just from the specs.

At length he sits back.

"She's beautiful," he breathes. He looks across at Brains. "You designed her, didn't you?"

"I, yes, she's m-m-mine."

He looks at the scientist with something new in his eyes. He isn't going to like the guy any time soon, but there's real respect there.

Scott shakes his head. "But what does she do?" He was plainly baffled. "She's obviously fast – _real_ fast. But she isn't really a combat plane, her armament looks purely defensive. Recon? Rapid response? I don't see how you're going to market her, sir."

"We're not," Dad says smoothly.

I want to laugh at the expression of puzzlement on Scott's face.

"Then she isn't going to get built?" He sounds disappointed.

"She's already built. She's waiting for someone to test-fly her. But we're not taking orders. She's a one-off."

Scott just shakes his head. He still doesn't get it.

There's a ghost of a smile on Dad's lips, the first since Gordon's accident.

He presses the release catch on the desk and the operations room swings into view.

I designed the hydraulics. It was my idea to hide it right behind Dad's office. Nice touch, I think.

Scott's on his feet in an instant, wary as a cat.

As the movement stops he moves cautiously into the new space. Every now and then he stops to inspect a display. We let him drink it all in. He works his way around the entire room, checking out the equipment.

Finally he's satisfied and swings round. His excitement is building.

He knows exactly what this is.

"This is crazy!" He is still not quite able to believe it. "This looks like….You have _got_ to be kidding me. This is International Rescue. Dad, are you telling me you made it happen - you've built International Rescue?"

He sounds both disbelieving and hopeful at the same time.

"Always said I would. You ever known me just talk about a thing?"

"Yes, but…" Scott stops. He doesn't want to articulate what we all felt growing up. That IR was just some never-never-land, some story to amuse us, some utopian but impossible vision, no more than a pipe-dream.

He laughs, wonderingly. "You made it happen."

"And now the planes need testing…"

"Planes, sir? Plural?"

"Hiram has been busy. As well as the GXP, there's a transport, and we're putting the finishing touches to a single-stage space vehicle."

"Where are they?"

"Right under your feet, boy."

"Here on the island?" He's plainly incredulous.

Dad just rolls his eyes. "I need a test-pilot, but it has to be someone who can subsequently head up the operations team."

"You want me to find someone for you?"

"He's asking you to _do_ it, you idiot," I put in hastily. "Right Dad?"

Now I know why he brought me home too. These two need a freaking interpreter when they talk.

He gives me a single nod. "Right, son."

Scott blinks, rubs his nose. "I think I need…" he hesitates.

He's going to do the control thing again, I know he is. I know just how bad he must want this, but he isn't going to let Dad see it. He's going say he needs more time to think about it and see how long he can make the old man stew.

But he's looking Dad right in the eye for once.

"I think I need to do this, sir," he says softly. "I thought I knew what I was signing up for when I joined the Air Force. Don't misunderstand me – I'm not saying I don't believe in what we're doing out there - but I've had to do a lot of things I'm not so proud of. Maybe this is a chance to give something back."

Dad's gaze relaxes. His expression is hard to fathom.

Then I realise. It's plain relief.

This has had nothing to do with them not being able to work together, nothing to do with ruining Scott's Air Force career.

He's just been afraid all this while that Scott would turn him down.

…


	4. Chapter 4

"Hey, baby bro'," I say softly.

I lean over so he can see me.

Something wonderful happens.

He smiles.

It's a little hard to tell. His face is badly swollen, they haven't tried to reset his nose yet and everything's pretty crooked. His eyes are misted by painkillers.

But I know it's a smile.

"Know where you are?" I keep my voice down low.

"Hosp..." His voice is thick. I dip my fingers into the water jug, run them round his lips.

"Hospital," he tries again, more confidently.

"That's right. And we're all here. Dad, Scott, Johnny, me. Alan and Grandma are coming up at the weekend. D'you remember what happened?"

His eyes cloud. "No."

"You were in an accident. Crashed your 'foil."

"Don't remember."

I hope he never does.

"Doesn't matter now. What matters is you get well, you hear me?"

"Sure."

"And start giving the nurses hell."

"Only…only the cute ones," he struggles with this, but gets it out eventually.

I laugh and stroke his forehead. It's lame, but it's very Gordon. He's still in there.

"And when you're better you're going to finish your aquanaut training and join International Rescue. Then Alan's going to finish college and join us. All of us – a team."

"All?" He frowns, as though struggling to remember something. "Not Scott."

"Scott's resigned his commission. He's coming to work for Dad too."

The smile again.

"So now we're five?"

I pass a hand over his forehead again.

"Sure, kiddo. Now we are five."

…


End file.
